Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Good Letters

Home
Catholic
Lamenting an Imperfect Friendship

Lamenting an Imperfect Friendship

Last updated on: June 3, 2013 at 9:26 am by Shannon Huffman Polson

Lamenting an Imperfect Friendship 2013-06-03T09:26:22-07:00 Shannon Huffman Polson

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

Walking on the sidewalk of Spokane, I read an email that made me stop still. I’d just left a reading of North of Hope on my first trip away from my husband and two young children, when I checked my iPhone, compulsively, as I do, having no one to debrief with in person, looking for some kind of connection through cell signals and electrons.

It was a warm spring evening, and I thought I’d find a good glass of wine along the river. I was the only one in a sweater, an old comfortable one I liked. Everywhere there were bare arms and shoulders, street musicians on sidewalks from which heat wafted like a smell, carrying the sounds of the saxophone player and three shirtless college-aged guys with beards playing ordinary objects as percussion.

It was an email with just a name in the subject line, the name of a long ago friend I’ve maintained occasional contact with. She had dinner at our home when she was at a work conference a year before, and sent a note when our second son was born a few months ago. Just a couple of weeks ago I’d had a note from her on Facebook saying she’d received her copy of North of Hope and was excited to read it.

I wrote a quick reply. “Exciting but a little overwhelming—love to you!” Now the email came from her husband. “Shannon, Julie passed away yesterday. She had been in a very dark place and could not climb out.”

I stood on the sidewalk in that warmth, in those sounds, and I could not move.

Julie and I became friends at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina in 1995. We were two of the only women officers in an attack aviation regiment. I was a pilot, and she was a staff officer.

We lived off post in the same condominium complex and trained together for our first marathon, one we picked because it was within driving distance and because it was flat: Kiawah Island, South Carolina. We ran it together, and I waited while she cramped up during the first ten miles, and then fumed when she sprinted ahead at the finish line.

It was not a perfect friendship.

You get to know someone well when you run together through miles of pavement, countless blisters, cramps and sweat, injuries and untied shoelaces, and excursions to hide Gatorade bottles in bushes at the halfway point if there isn’t a gas station nearby.

But I hadn’t known how deep was her battle with depression.

I know someone who wonders why it is we say a prayer for forgiveness every Sunday. “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you…”

“Some weeks I don’t think there’s anything I’ve done wrong,” she says, and she is a lovely person, and I think she is being honest.

“We have sinned against you, in thought word and deed, by things we have done, and things we have left undone…”

Julie and I shared stories of the guys we liked or didn’t. She brought me to a retreat weekend that opened my eyes in new ways to God, a God who knew me deeply, loved me deeply, forgave me deeply.

One night I stayed at her condo when a hurricane came through Fayetteville. I slept on the recliner and she on the couch, both turned away from the windows and sliding glass doors crisscrossed in masking tape in case they burst. It seemed like it would be better to go through a storm with a friend than it would be alone.

After Ft. Bragg, we were both stationed other places and stayed in some contact, making occasional visits to each other. She got married quickly and I didn’t have time to attend. I didn’t hear from her for a year after I lost my father and stepmother, and I decided that our friendship had run its course, and that might have been true.

Julie leaves two children and her husband and a large family of siblings and parents. When I checked Facebook, two of her family members had taken her profile picture as their own.

Recently I read a letter that Ted Hughes wrote to his son years after the death of his wife, Sylvia Plath (the irony does not escape me.) The real self, Hughes said to his son, is an inner child that each person has hidden beneath a carefully constructed facade. This is the self that meets the slings and arrows of fortune or misfortune. This self is what must truly engage, truly live.

But this self is unprepared. Sometimes the storms are too strong. Sometimes the race is too long.

And sometimes the specter of mental illness subsumes this self. This is what happened to Julie. The National Institute of Mental Health says that seven percent of the population experiences major depressive disorder. Less than half receive treatment.

Julie had been on disability twice in the past year, staggering under the weight of depression and anxiety.

“When you develop a strong divining sense for the child behind that armour,” Hughes wrote, “you find that everybody becomes, in a way, like your own child.”

It was not a perfect friendship. But what relationship is? Julie was my friend. She was my neighbor. Should she have been like my child? Should I have divined deeper?

There are times when we can only lament. We remember that Good Friday comes before Easter. We wait in the pain. What should I have done?

This is where I pray: “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against you.” This is where I pray: Kyrie eleison, Lord, have mercy.

I pray for her, and for her husband and daughter and son. I pray because I could not run with her during her struggle. I try to remind myself each day to pray for those who do not have the strength. To remind myself that those people, at times, are all of us.

Kyrie eleison. Lord, have mercy.

Shannon Huffman Polson is the author of North of Hope: A Daughter’s Arctic Journey. Her essays and articles have appeared in a number of literary and commercial magazines including High Country News, Adventum, Cirque Journal and Alaska and Seattle Magazines. She can be found writing or with her her family in Seattle or Alaska, and always at her website, Facebook, and Twitter.

Relationships

Shannon Huffman Polson

Previous Post

May 30, 2013

The Daughter Who Defied Gravity

Next Post

June 3, 2013 Spared not Blessed

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category A. G. Harmon Alissa Wilkinson Allison Backous Art Authors Brad Fruhauff Bradford Winters Bryan Bliss Caroline Langston Chad Thomas Johnston Chris Hoke Christiana N. Peterson Culture D.G. Myers D.L. Mayfield Daniel Bowman Jr. David Griffith Elizabeth Duffy Faith Film Greg Wolfe Guest Contributor Interview Jan Vallone Jeffrey Overstreet Jessica Eddings-Roeser Jessica Mesman Griffith Kelly Foster Lindsey Crittenden Morgan Meis music Natalie Vestin Nick Olson Peggy Rosenthal Personal Reflection Poetry Friday Reflection Relationships Review Richard Chess Richard Cole Sara Zarr Shannon Huffman Polson Sonya Bilocerkowycz Tania Runyan Tony Woodlief Topical Categories Uncategorized Vic Sizemore Writing

Select a Month October 2018 September 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 January 2018 December 2017 November 2017 October 2017 September 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 January 2017 December 2016 November 2016 October 2016 September 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016 February 2016 January 2016 December 2015 November 2015 October 2015 September 2015 August 2015 July 2015 June 2015 May 2015 April 2015 March 2015 February 2015 January 2015 December 2014 November 2014 October 2014 September 2014 August 2014 July 2014 June 2014 May 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 January 2014 December 2013 November 2013 October 2013 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012 November 2012 October 2012 September 2012 August 2012 July 2012 June 2012 May 2012 February 2008

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

What does "Paraclete," as used for the Holy Spirit, mean?

Select your answer to see how you score.

King Friend Sacrifice Helper or advocate